


Stay

by pwh_weiss



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Casual Sex, Father of the Year, Guilt, M/M, Unprocessed Grief, dead spouse, self-indulgent sadfic, seriously is this thing even on, the slowest of burns, the weird Robert politics of casual whatever
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-12-05
Packaged: 2019-01-06 11:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 20,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12210270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pwh_weiss/pseuds/pwh_weiss
Summary: I made a thing. Loosely based on Dadsona's first hookup with Robert Small, and everything that follows. What I initially thought would be a small collection of snippets has evolved into something longer and more unwieldy - but that's not a bad thing. :)Feedback welcome - even (especially?) if you hate it. If enough people like/hate it, I might make more things. There's a lot of really good Robert-fic already, but what's the harm in one more? I want all the Robert.





	1. Chapter 1

This was such a mistake.

I wish I was home right now, in my own bed, instead of in a strange room with this strange man. Everything reeks of whiskey and cigarettes. The whole thing feels like a bad country-western video. Everywhere I look, there's bottles, cans, ashtrays piled high with stubs, articles of clothing that may or may not be recently laundered, and the occasional pocket knife. Like, more knives than anyone should rightly have for practical purposes.

This was _such_ a bad idea.

Shit, what did he say his name was again? Shitshitshit... oh right, Robert. Well, at the very least, if he harvests my organs in my sleep, I'll know the name of the man who killed me. I turn gingerly onto my side, nervous about waking him up, even though he's snoring lightly and probably has enough whiskey in him to euthanise a small horse.

_What the fuck are you doing, Vaughan._

Out of nowhere. His voice. His intonation. It's been happening more often lately. Maybe it's just with Amanda about to leave home soon for art school. But it feels like more than that, somehow.

Alex...

Except he'd never use those words exactly. Alex had a whole dignified, slightly Oxbridge thing about him. Sweater vests and horn-rimmed glasses, well-pruned goatee, perfect diction. Ever the believer in sound, rational debate. Whenever Amanda threw a tantrum over a curfew, or whatever trouble she managed to get into at school, Alex would always be ready to remind her: "If you have the truth on your side, you don't need to raise your voice."

Christ, what time is it? My eyes dart around for an alarm clock, or my phone (which may well be in the living room with my pants). Nothing. When did we leave the bar... ? 11? Midnight? God, it must be like 2 in the morning.

Oh god, Amanda....

No... wait... Amanda's fine. She was with the Emmas. And then, just before things got... frisky with... name... name.... Robert... she'd sent through a text: _Hey dad - staying over at Emma R's tonight. Hope you're making friends!_

Yeah... I'm not sure this qualifies.

I turn to look at him again. He's really not a graceful sleeper. Hunched, with his back to me. One arm flung out awkwardly, so that I can study the dark hair along his forearm if I squint hard enough, and the obscure shape of his hand tattoo. I asked him about it at the bar, and he mumbled something about it being "a reminder". I was slightly annoyed by the cryptic non-answer, but I pressed on anyway, because I guess he has a good face or something.

He is handsome. I gotta give him that. In that classic Hollywood bad-boy kinda way... something akin to the lovechild of James Dean and Marlon Brando, with extra scruff for good measure. I can picture Robert in a tight-fitting tee, standing in the rain, belting out: "STELLAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!"

So not my type.

 _But really, what is your type these days, Vaughan?_ Not-Alex smirks.

I have a dozen replies at the tip of my tongue. But nope, I'm not doing this. I'm not having an argument with a figment of my post-drunk, sleep-deprived imagination. There's enough real-life bullshit to deal with right here in the present moment.

I could sneak out now. I think. But he has a dog. Betsy. She got all excited when we came through the door, but realised pretty soon it wasn't that kind of playtime. I could hear her scratching at the door when we were.... well. Granted, she's an adorably dumb little Boston terrier whose eyeballs account for 40% of her body mass, but still. She could make a ruckus if I wake her up. Which would then wake him up. Which would defeat the whole purpose of trying to sneak out to begin with.

I sigh, looking over at him again. At the bar, he had the air of someone who's perpetually tired, no matter how many hours of sleep they've had. I wonder if he'll be the same in the morning.

Augghhhh.... morning. This is becoming a logistical nightmare. Betsy lurking outside, making escape impossible. Versus the prospect of waking up in the same bed as Robert of the Many Knives. Versus the utterly humiliating possibility that Amanda might somehow have beaten me back home, and put two and two together. Nonononono... goddammit, no.

I force myself to rally, pushing past the grogginess and the soreness of certain muscles unused to... activity, propping myself up to sit at the edge of the bed. Scanning the room for my underwear...

Robert stirs, grumbling, turning to my side of the bed. Shit. Don't wake up. Please don't-

"Hey."

Too late.

I start, looking over my shoulder. His eyes are still closed.

"Hey.... yourself."

He swallows, with some effort, and snuffles a bit. "Goin' somewhere?" He's got a sexy voice. I've gotta hand that to him too. Low, and just a little husky, like he's just had a stiff drink. Which, judging from the debris in this room, is more often than not the case.

"Yeah... just... home. I'm uh... looking for my clothes." Yup. Slick.

The sound he makes is somewhere between a chuckle and a growl. "Don't bother. Stay the night."

"Technically it's morning."

He smiles a little. "Stay the morning then. I like waking up to a nice view."

No, you asshole, I have a daughter to get home to. Is what I ought to say. But I don't. Because thinking of Amanda makes me remember something I saw in Robert's living room. In between the fumbling and blur of lips and tongue and teeth, I could have sworn I'd seen a photo on his wall of a little girl. Does Robert have a kid too? Where is she? Did I imagine her, or was she really there, bearing witness to her father's depravity?

"So I should stay to entertain you." I say flatly.

That makes him grin. "Exactly."

I smile in spite of myself. "Well that's really fucking selfish."

That earns a laugh, surprisingly genuine. He opens his eyes. "I'm sooooo fucking selfish. You have no idea."

"Seriously though. I should go."

He takes a moment to consider. "Okay."

 _Ouch_. "What? You _literally_ just said-"

Another chuckle. "I'm kidding. But you should stay, just to punish me."

This fucking guy.

By now, I'm so tired, and the sheets and pillow are so, so tempting. I'll have to make something up if it comes up with Amanda. I had too much to drink, and had to crash on the neighbour's couch. Something like that. Ugh. Father of the Year.

_And it's just about sleep, right? It's nothing to do with the warm body that just happens to be-_

Stop it. Just stop.

I slide back down next to Robert, who scooches close, draping an arm over my waist. I feel his breath on my skin as he leans in, nipping the side of my neck with his teeth.

"Good call." He mutters.

I try not to think any more as I wait for sleep to claim me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, in all its inglory.

_Morning, you..._

Some distal part of my mind knows it's not real. I'm just in that strange zone between dream and waking. It's not him. Never him. But that voice... the same one I woke up to every morning for over a decade, almost two. I can hear his low, teasing laugh.

_Wake up, love..._

I open my eyes, and everything _throbs._ I immediately squeeze them shut again.

"Uhh....."

God, everything hurts, inside and out. The human body can be truly awful in its retaliation when it feels it has been wronged. My head pulses with the worst hangover I've had in... years, probably.

Okay. Just gotta get some water. C'mon Vaughan. We can do this. Just gotta... sit up.... and... um.... um...

Nope, I'm fucked.

Suddenly, a door bursts open. I startle, fully awake.

"Wha-"

I turn to see Robert, fully dressed (is he ever not wearing that leather jacket?), standing at the bathroom door. He scrutinises me, brow cocked in a what-are-you-still-doing-here kinda way.

Oh, that's right. Everything falls into place like slow-moving mental Tetris. I'm not at my old place (where Alex would have been making breakfast downstairs, humming Bach). Nor am I at my new place, where Amanda might be waiting and wondering (perish the thought). I'm at Robert's house. In fact, I'm in Robert's room, which in the clear light of day resembles a recycling plant, because last night, Robert and I...

Argh. ARGH. Bad. Bad. Bad.

"You doin' okay, fella?"

"Uh, yeah.... morning. Sorry, I'm just... getting my bearings."

"Alright. Your clothes are over there. Not sure about your pants though... you might have to go on a scavenger hunt." No niceties. Not "oh, don't worry about it, you should stay for breakfast", or "how about a glass of water", or "thanks for last night, I had fun". He may as well say what he meant: You should go. Did I hallucinate the whole thing last night where he (kinda) asked me to stay?

And really, why am I even annoyed? Isn't this just how these things go? I'm not really a guest. He's not running a bed and breakfast. I have no right to expect... hospitality. Why did I stay anyway? I wanted to ask him something... what was it?

Meanwhile, Robert rummages the pockets of his jacket. He seems nervous, like he's the one itching to leave instead of me. He pulls out a crumpled carton of cigarettes (Marlboros... of course), draws one between his teeth, then reaches for a gunmetal lighter on top of the dresser. He takes a pull, exhales with an exaggerated huff, then looks at me again like a barely-registered afterthought. "Hope you don't mind," he half-grins.

I barely manage a thin smile. "Not at all." Screw this. I'll hydrate at home. Trying to keep the sheet around me, I start gathering my clothes, painfully aware of the upper hand he has in this situation. Of all the bad choices...

_To be fair, at the bar, he was just sitting there, minding his own business, and you had to go over to chat him up._

_To be fair, he stopped and asked if you wanted to come inside, and you agreed._

_To be fair, he did ask you if you wanted to stop, and you said no._

I get dressed as best I can, feeling my self-respect deflate like an air mattress. "Um... I'm just gonna grab my jacket from downstairs. And... y'know. My pants." Oh the humanity.

"Good call, boss," Robert deadpans. "Probably don't wanna go outside like that. I mean, I don't mind, but... it's a small neighbourhood, y'know? And we have a few... preachy types."

I wonder vaguely if he's talking about the Stepford husband I met yesterday. Joseph. God, he was like a perturbing mix of Ned Flanders, Mike Brady, and Captain America. Plus, the pastels, the sweater tied around the neck... all of it screams suburban repression. He came over with _cookies_ , for christsakes. Thankfully Amanda had enough social grace for both of us. By which I mean, she took the cookies and ran like the proverbial wind, leaving me to fend for myself against ten head-bashingly awkward minutes of "Oh Kirk Douglas!", "Lawrence of Arabia!" and "Wink!"

Robert takes another puff, holds his breath for a while, before releasing a perfectly-formed smoke ring. I'm captivated in spite of myself. He then promptly destroys it with a burst of smoke.

"You have a lot of time on your hands, huh?" I don't mean to come across quite so snarky, but tone regulation is very hard to achieve when your brain is thrumming with a single, intent message: water me, or I'll shrivel up and die.

But Robert just does his maniacal half-grin thing again. "A wizard is never late," he growls, "Nor is he early."

We head downstairs. As I gather the remaining evidence of last night's poor decisions from his living room furniture, my eyes light on it again: the portrait on the wall. A little girl, with dark hair and serious eyes. Surely she must be Robert's. She looks so out of place among the framed vinyls and classic rock mementos. I'm burning to ask him about her (along with so many other things), but something tells me the moment's over for all that.

We're at the door, and I'm not sure what to say next. "So... it was nice meeting you, Robert."

He looks sheepish for a moment. "You too, uh..."

The moment drags on. My eyebrows cannot go any higher. Is he for real?

"Vaughan." I finally say, putting us both out of our misery. 

"Right. Vaughan. Well... bonsoir, neighbour."

"It's morning."

"Huh. Bon... whatever them French say." He gives me a smirk I can't quite read, and closes the door.

Only then do I realise I've been holding my breath the whole time. I sigh, and start making my way home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amanda chapter. <3 Just to lighten things up a bit around here.

This potent mix of hangover and morning-after shame have obviously compromised my fine motor skills. It takes me a ridiculous amount of time to unlock my own front door ("Goddamn Robert and his goddamn whiskey shots...").

As I walk in, I'm greeted with the heavenly scent of bacon and fried eggs... Amanda must have made breakfast. Bless that child. Surely a father's proudest moment is when he realises OH GOD AMANDA GOT HOME BEFORE ME OH THE HUMILIATION HOW AM I GONNA EXPLAIN ANY OF THIS OH CRAP PLEASE JUST END ME NOW.

Deep breaths, Vaughan. _Art of War_. "Appear strong when you are weak."

I'm screwed.

Steadying myself, I enter the kitchen: Amanda's waiting at the head of the table, stroking the giant pink stuffed kiwi bird we bought on vacation a few years ago, doing her best Bond villain scowl: "Wee've bean eexpecting you, Meester Thompson."

I put on a resigned-to-death hero grimace to match: "Do your worst, Blofeld."

The scowl cracks into a grin. "So where have _you_ been, young man?" She throws the stuffed kiwi at me. I let it hit my chest with a muffled thud, and watch it fall to the ground in an graceless pink heap. You, overblown tourist trinket, you know how I feel.

I sigh, rummaging in the pantry for aspirin and one of the glasses we'd unpacked the afternoon before. Finally, my tortured cerebrum will get what it's been craving. "Realising I'm not as young as I used to be, Panda."

Amanda hands me a plate piled high with bacon, eggs over easy, and hash browns. My heart swells. Surely this is why people have offspring.

Spotting a vulnerable moment, she launches into a fresh assault: "Very cryptic, mister. But I have a good imagination. I've actually been making a list of all the shenanigans you could have been up to so late. Y'know, while I've had to fend for myself in the mean streets of Maple Bay for the past _fourteen_ hours. This is a dangerous neighbourhood, dad. There are _youth pastors_. And big Santa-Claus-looking dudes named Brian with hideous Hawaiian shirts. And who even _knows_ what's going on with that guy who painted his whole house black."

"Auuughhhh...." was the best I could manage by way of supplication. "I'll tell you everything later. Promise. But just, right now, please let your father eat and wallow in peace. I beseech thee as the man who raised and fed and sheltered thee, and loves thee unconditionally, and will keep the secret of thy misguided One Direction phase, even unto death."

Amanda narrows her eyes. Them's fighting words and she knows it. "Only until Zayn left. And no one, _no one_ , must know."

"Agreed," I nod with fatherly magnanimity.

For a few minutes, we sit together at the table in silence. The greasy ambrosia Amanda prepared is exactly what I needed. I feel my headache subside, bit by bit.

"That must be some hangover, huh." She stares, obviously fascinated by this deviation from normal programming. I try not to look as guilty as I feel. From what she's told me, some of her friends' parents are a lot more lax about alcohol, in and out of the house, but Alex and I had always tried to be careful about setting a good example. Guess goddamn Robert blew that out of the water. The image of his face brings an onslaught of chagrin, shame, and... something.

"I hope you'll never have to experience this particular brand of agony. It's too late for me now. But you're young. You still have a chance. Be better than I have been."

My wisdom is rewarded with an eye-roll. "So... who were you drinking with anyway?"

I swallow a mouthful of hash brown. Tread. Very. Carefully.

"Oh, just... y'know. Someone I met at the bar. Man, remember the dive we drove past yesterday - Jim and Kim's? Turns out it's basically the only place in town if you wanna get a drink. Honestly though, it's actually not that bad, once you get past the blaring neon cliche of it all-"

"Okay, cool dad, but tell me more about this drinking buddy. I didn't think you'd make friends this quickly... no offence." She's persistent when she wants to be, our Amanda. Alex would be proud. He was always telling her that persistence is the highest virtue ("How do you think I got this one to marry me?").

"Well," God, how does one even  _begin_ to describe the goodie bag of assorted issues that is Robert, especially to one's teenage daughter. "His name was Robert. We just... got to talking over the Game and stuff. And... um.... he's actually one of our neighbours. His house is the one next to the goth McMansion."

"Cool. So how was it?"

WHAT? WHAT DOES SHE KNOW? For a moment, my brain feels like a keyboard stuck on one key. "Hm.... mm..." I make a show of enthusiastic chewing and gesturing. Gulp. "How was... uh, what?"

Amanda fixes me with a wide stare. "His. House?"

Ah. Right.

"Oh, it was great. He seems like he's really into old rock and blues and all that stuff. A lot of records all over the place. Uh... not much else to report. I mean, I basically crashed on his couch and went out like a light, y'know?"

Amanda rolled her eyes. "Pfft. He could have just done the gentlemanly thing and walked you home. I mean, he only lives like two minutes away."

Well Panda, Robert ain't really the gentlemanly type, I think to myself, very tired all of a sudden. But whatever. The main crisis is over. How differently would this conversation have gone if-

"So, is he cute?"

Goddammit.

"Amanda!"

"God, just kidding. Calm your shit, dad."

"Amanda Ann!"

She giggles, ignoring my glower as I finish my eggs.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ding-ding-ding.

"G'night, Panda. Don't stay up too late."

It's been three weeks since we've moved to Maple Bay. Three exhausting weeks of dealing with amenities, ISPs, insurance, the DMV, endless - _endless_ \- unpacking, new colleagues, new teachers for Amanda, new neighbours whose names I'm not still 100% confident about... god, I can't wait for my head to hit that pillow. Such are the small but exquisite pleasures afforded by a Friday evening in one's doting middle-age.

And then there's Robert Small. Who seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.

In the week that followed my, uh, sleepover, my brain busied itself filling in the blank of silence with an absurd range of possibilities. I wound up caving and sending him a message on Dadbook. Amanda had talked me through the finer points of the app when we were brand new to the neighbourhood. Back when she still had all sorts of misguided notions about getting me socialised.

Robert, however, clearly had things to do and people to see, since he never bothered to get back to me. Even though, y'know, he doesn't ever seem to leave his house.

Not that I'm bitter or anything.

"Night... hey dad?"

"Yeah?" I duck my head back through the living room doorway.

"Is everything okay?" Amanda turns to look at me, uncharacteristically sombre. "You seem... I dunno. Just, really tired lately. More than usual."

I manage a crooked smile. "Yeah. Just work, I guess. Don't worry, they haven't killed me yet. Don't let the bastards grind you down, right?"

Amanda bites her lip. Kid can detect bullshit from miles off.

I remind myself, as I frequently do, of just how lucky I am with Amanda. On the whole, we've always been good at talking to each other. Alex and I made a concerted effort to set that precedent from early on, especially because we'd never had that with our own respective parents. When Alex was gone, Amanda and I could at least find consolation in each other, as opposed to so many other families I've seen and heard and read about.

But moving here... the whole Robert thing... me, not keeping secrets exactly, but not telling the whole truth either, even if it's for Amanda's sake. And what is there to say, really? We slept together, once, in ill-advised circumstances. We're certainly not dating. And I'm not even sure he's someone I particularly want in my life, let alone Amanda's if it ever came to that. What do we even have in common, beyond a predisposition for bad decisions after too many whiskey shots?  _I don't even like whiskey shots_. The whole thing just feels... off, and Amanda's obviously picking up on that now.

"Dad... you know you can talk to me about anything, right? Because I think you forget sometimes."

She looks so earnest that for a moment, I want to cry, just a little. "I know, Panda. And I always remember. Promise."

"Wanna spit-shake on it?"

That makes me laugh. "I'll take a rain check."

I potter back to my room, feeling very old. Predictably, as soon as my head does hit the pillow, the thoughts swarm down like a biblical locust plague, and I'm wide awake. Perfect. It's mostly white noise. Stuff I need to chase up at work. Robert. Weekend chores. Robert.  _Get out of my cranium already._

Oh, and then there's my latest questionable decision: agreeing to a date with Amanda's English teacher, in an effort to distract myself from the Robert-go-round in my skull.

Hugo (I have to check the urge to call him 'Mr. Vega' every time) seems like a good guy from the limited interaction we've had. Sensitive, but no-nonsense. And kinda cute, in a tweed-jacket-and-bowtie, harangued-pedagogue way. I can't speak for the manbun, but... no one's perfect at any age. So when he stopped me after a parent-teacher meeting, and asked me along to Trivia Night and a cheese platter at the local French diner, I was too taken aback to say no.

It was actually a fun night, and there was a deliciously awkward moment a la _Lady and the Tramp_ when our hands touched reaching for the same piece of gouda. He was charming, and easy to talk to, and we had some good laughs over the tribulations of single-fatherhood (his son, Ernest, sounds like he could use a healthy dose of boot camp). On paper, Hugo ticks all the right boxes. And yet, when the evening wound up and he walked me to my door, we looked at each other and smiled with the same wry understanding: you're very nice, but you're not really for me.

He seems like he'd be a good influence though, and I need all the help I can get settling in. Hugo's been living in Maple Bay for over a decade, teaches at the local middle/high school (budget cuts), and is friends with just about everyone in the neighbourhood. Plus, he'd make a great buffer when Amanda finally frogmarches me to one of these weekend cookouts that Joseph Christiansen keeps hinting about.

Thinking back, Alex had made it so easy for me, right from the start. He took the initiative to ask me out. He knew exactly what to say to put me at ease. He could always find the bliss point between leading and following, charm and self-deprecation, edge and softness. On our first date, being the dork I am, I managed to spill coffee on my pants. I blushed bright red, mumbling apologies, feeling like the whole thing was DOA.

Without missing a beat, Alex picked up his own cup and poured the last sip of his long black down the front of his pristine white shirt.

"There," he'd smiled, "now we're even."

"Oh god, why would you _do_ that?" I'd lamented, grabbing my napkin and dabbing uselessly at the stain. "You'll never be able to get that out."

He only smiled wider: "Maybe. I'd say it was worth it though, to get a cute guy to fuss over me."

Christ, I dunno. Maybe you only get a certain amount of luck in life... maybe I've maxed out my quota with Alex. As I tried to explain to Amanda once, with each year past a certain age, it gets exponentially harder to meet new people, make new friends. Let alone date. Mostly I was just trying to depress her into spending less time on internet cat videos, but the basic principle still holds.

Just then, my phone lights up on the nightstand, and a series of DINGs assaults the silence. Who the f-?

I fumble for the phone: a series of Dadbook messages fill the screen. I can't quite believe what I'm seeing when my eyes adjust:

_ROBERT:_

_hey_  
_Vaughan_  
_hey_  
_hey Vaughan_  
_come hang out with me_

Seriously? Now? It's 9:57 pm. Does this guy have any sense of normal human propriety?

The dialogue box flickers again:

;)

You have got to be shitting me.

I ought to switch my phone off and get back to sleep without another thought. But I don't. Instead, I scroll up to my initial message to him. The one I'd agonised over for literally forty minutes before finally pressing send in a moment of sheer, masochistic weakness.

_VAUGHAN:_

_Hey Robert. Just wanted to see how you're doing. I had fun the other night, despite the mutual weirdness in the morning. So... let me know if you want to grab another drink sometime._

Of course, as soon as I'd sent it, I realised I'd set myself up for the time-honoured ritual of paranoically checking for a response every half-hour, then savagely berating myself for giving away my power to a middle-aged fratboy. Predictably, the jerk left me on read. For two fucking weeks. And I deserve it. Because that is what happens when you sacrifice personal standards to momentary desperation.

But now... what does he _want_?

I re-read Robert's messages, as though some profound insight into my current dilemma would present itself if I just stare long and hard enough. Who even writes like this? What's wrong with just one 'hey'? What's wrong with sending one complete message? What's wrong with punctuation? What grown-ass man would send a _winky face_?

The thing is, I can put a stop to all this nonsense right now. Leave him on read and go back to sleep. Make him taste his own goddamn medicine.

I think about this, and how things would play out afterwards. We'd pass each other in the street maybe once a fortnight, with barely more than a grunt and an awkward nod. It's not like our paths cross on a daily basis. Hereafter, Robert Small wouldn't even be a blip on my radar.

Then I think about my awkward-as-hell date with Hugo. And what it means to have your luck run out. To have used up your lifetime quota.

And as much as I hate myself for it, I also think about the graze of thick stubble against my neck, and warm lips that taste like whiskey, and the tickle of a low whisper in my ear. And how simultaneously foreign and familiar it had been, to be held in the dark after so long.

I sigh, and start typing:

_Fine. I'll be over in a while._

Send. I pause, then add:

_Are you gonna kick me out again?_

Long pause. Then the familiar ding:

 _maybe_  
_hurry up_

I roll my eyes and get dressed. Like a guilty teenager, I slip past the living room, where Amanda is still binging _Long Haul Paranormal Ice Road Ghost Truckers._  Quietly, I open the door and step out into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaughan and Robert have an interesting exchange.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, the-author-is-dead and all that. But one of my frustrations with the Robert arc is this implicit narrative that Dadsona is basically a decent, well-adjusted dude, and Robert is human rubble with a treasure chest of secret feelings buried underneath, and Dadsona just has to keep digging and avoiding the pitfalls and persevering until he gets to the gold.
> 
> The thing is, Dadsona lost his husband. It's okay for him not to be the fount of all compassion and wisdom and healing. He's got shit of his own he needs to work through. With Robert's arc, so much hinges on that first decision to sleep with him or not. One bad precedent determines the whole course of that relationship. Really? Is that how it works?
> 
> Anyway, that's my little rant for the day. Other thoughts and POVs welcome.

Robert's front door opens, and Betsy tumbles out, yapping and trying to climb up my leg the way infatuated puppies do. I crouch down to give her the belly rub of her life, and she lolls around in sheer ecstasy. God, what does it take to be that _happy_. I'll do anything.

"Long time, stranger," Robert greets me with his signature smirk, and I wonder how someone can look like shit and so preternaturally hot at the same time. There's the same leather jacket. The same rumpled red shirt I last saw him in. God, I hope he's changed at least once since then.

"Long time indeed," I mutter, studying his face for some sign of contrition. "You don't call, you don't write..."

"Not true," his grin gives nothing away, stepping back to let me in. "I wrote you tonight, didn't I?"

"Not exactly a Victorian love-missive, but sure." I shoot for flippant, but end up somewhere between sulky and petulant. Why do I get like this, setting myself up to be baited further?

"I'll send something lengthy and heartfelt next time, full of verbatim quotes from such classics as _Titanic_ and _The Notebook_. Handwritten on the finest vellum, liberally sprinkled with tears of unrequited love, and sealed with the Small family crest. I'll even let you paint me like one of your French girls, if that's what tickles your fancy. You want a drink?"

We make our way to the living room. From the array of bottles on his coffee table at various points of depletion, I'd say Messrs Jim Beam and Jack Daniel have been keeping him company for most of the day. There's also a perturbing lack of glassware in sight.

"No thanks. And FYI, I'm more of a _(500) Days of Summer_ kinda girl." Actually, Amanda and I did watch that when it came out. I'm not ashamed to say that I loved every minute.

"Huh. Not bad for what it is. But if we're going down the track of manufactured quirk, I'd much rather  _Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind_. Truly the only movie I can stand Jim Carey in. In everything else, it's like looking into a rabid animal's eyes. What else you into?"

"God... I dunno. Pretentious arthouse shit. Anything black-and-white."

"You don't say. Sam Fuller?"

"Sure. He's the one that did _The Naked Kiss_ , right?"

"Bingo. Fuller is fucking cash."

Robert sprawls out on one of the couches, but I'm too jittery to sit. I also have no idea what to do with my hands, so I keep my arms folded. Robert doesn't strike me as the sort of guy who likes to play Twenty Questions, but there are always clues if you look hard enough for them. There's a whole lot to go on in this room - the guy is just so messy. Everywhere I look, there's bottles, clothes, magazines (he reads the _New Yorker_?). There's that photo in the silver frame again. Who _are_ you, little girl? That Fender hanging on the wall - did Robert used to play? Or maybe he still does, though I have a hard time picturing the guy doing anything remotely productive. Speaking of which, what does he even do for a living? A whole lot of Tom Waits posters... he must be a real fan. Of the music and the lifestyle, one assumes. And what's with the terrarium? Actually, that one seems like a relatively benign entry point.

"Why do you have a terrarium?"

"A whatsitnow?" From the couch, he picks up a bottle of Jim Beam and takes a long swig, as though it had all the potency of Kool-Aid.

"Y'know, that." I point at the succulents in the middle of the table.

"Ah." He thinks about it for a while. "I have a philosophical attachment to things that are hard to kill."

It feels weird to be having an actual conversation with Robert. Even one that makes me feel a little like a socially inept 15-year-old. He seems to be taking his time. Where's the guy I met three weeks ago, who was all over me practically the moment we stepped through the door?

"Anyway... I know you didn't come here to make small talk."

Annnnnnnnnd there he is.

"Damn," I sigh. "You were doing such a good job of warming me up, till right then."

"Hey," He stands up and strides over. Slow, purposeful, like a predator stalking something soft and furry, leaning in, getting right up close so I can feel his breath on my neck, and smell the whiskey he's been getting well-acquainted with since late morning, probably. "I think I remember how to warm you up just fine..."

He places his hands on my chest, applying pressure gently, then not so gently... forcing me to step back, and back, and back, like the steps of a well-rehearsed dance. His mouth is by my ear the whole time, whispering a string of increasingly filthy things as he backs me against the wall.

" _Gotcha_." God, I hate that shit-eating grin. But that ceases to matter when he starts kissing my neck... slowly, methodically, like the final touches on a pointillist painting. I feel my breath catch. My eyes flutter shut. It's almost like when Alex used to...

NO.

I jerk away. Robert pulls back, raising an eyebrow: "You wanna stop?"

"I... I'm not sure."

He backs away anyway, running a hand through his hair. "Hey, it's fine. Let's just call it a night."

I force myself to look at him. He's facing the staircase, probably more to alleviate my awkwardness than his own. Is Robert Small trying to be _considerate_? We stay like that for a long while. Me looking at him. Him looking at the stairs.

"Interesting..."

"What is?"

"I dunno. You."

"Oh hell." Robert looks oddly uncomfortable. Wait... is that...

"Are you _blushing_?"

"Shuddup."

"Holy crap. Robert Small, I've found your kryptonite."

"Don't you dare..." But the threat carries no weight.

I give him my sincerest, most wide-eyed Walt Disney stare: "You're the most _fascinating_ man I've ever met. And I hope you'll forgive me for saying that jacket looks _amazing_ on you."

"Don't-"

"That whole monochrome-with-a-splash-of-colour thing? It really works... _very_ chic... very of-this-moment..."

"Stop it-"

I get closer, feeling the fulcrum tip. "You smell _so good_... is that cologne?"

"Oh, go fuck yourself."

Something snaps into place... a gear-shift happens in my head, and I start feeling a little mean. I snicker. "Why are you so bad with compliments? Smooth operator like you must get 'em all the time."

"It's just.... there's usually not this much _talking_...." Robert scratches his head, looking around as though there's a secret exit somewhere. No smirk. No smartass one-liners.

"Right." I say, my voice cold and even. "Why waste time."

"Seriously?" He looks at me then. "C'mon. You know what this is."

All of a sudden, I'm mad. All the unnecessary headspace he took up. The fact that he'd take me home on my first night in town, but wouldn't even look at me the morning after. The refusal to answer a simple, straightforward message, followed by a barrage of adolescent monosyllables _three weeks later_. And why do I even _care_? I don't even _like_ this guy. Why did I drag my ass out here in the middle of the night for someone that I don't give a crap about, and who obviously doesn't give a crap about me?

Maybe it's just the week I've had. Maybe it's the fact that Alex has been burning a hole through my mind lately, and I miss him _so, damn, much_. But I spit the words out like something foul-tasting before I can even think: "I actually really don't. I mean, I was _married_ to my _husband_ for _fourteen years_ , and then he _died_ , so whatever the _fuck_ is happening here is pretty fucking foreign to me. But maybe you can explain it for those of us who are too sweet and simple to understand. _Please_ , Robert, teach me how not to have any respect for myself or anyone else."

I immediately regret it. Robert flinches like I'd struck him across the face. Oh fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.... why did I say that....

For a minute, I feel sick, thinking he would retaliate in full force. But Robert just looks bewildered. Like a boy caught doing something he shouldn't have. Like a small-time criminal who'd been found out.

From her corner, Betsy whines. She knows something's up. I look over at her, her ears flattened, looking thoroughly ashamed even though she's done nothing wrong. I look back at Robert, who's wearing the exact same hangdog expression.

Shit, Robert, what did I do...

"I'm sorry," He mumbles, voice hoarse, trudging towards the stairs, careful to avoid my gaze. "You should go."

"Robert..."

He ignores me, and disappears up the stairs, Betsy darting after him.

I don't know what else to do. So I go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert chapter... still not quite a Victorian love-missive.

_This was such a mistake._

_I remember thinking that the first night we met. Not about you specifically - I didn't know you from Adam. But it had been the first time in a long while since I'd dragged myself out of the house. More accurately, it was Mary who did the dragging. Sometimes I think - maybe uncharitably, given everything that's happened... everything I've done - she does it because she needs a project. Something to distract herself from all the pastel pink and baby blue elephants traipsing around the room, breaking all the furniture. Some of us drive aimlessly for hours, or whittle in the woods, where everything is blessed quietude. Others spend their time trying to rehabilitate the town lush. We all need hobbies._

_As far as bars go, Jim and Kim's is as good as it gets around these parts, if you can look past the out-of-season Christmas lights. There's also Irish I Were Drinking, but any place that serves green beer deserves to be burgled. And that's basically Maple Bay in a nutshell. Two bars. One decent cafe. A computer store next to a sex shop. Check your bright-lights-big-city privilege at the welcome sign. Anyway, I digress._

_The point is, I was having a shit time, and had been for a while. Couldn't tell you why, beyond fate and circumstance and all that_ Catcher in the Rye _BS no one really wants to hear about. "You're in a mood again," Mary would say. "You need to get out, Rob, see people. 'Only connect' - have you never read a page of E.M. fucking Forster?"_

_Nine times out of ten I'll do it to humour her. As much as I'd like to spell out to Mary in minute detail just how much of an irredeemable fuck-up I am (not that I'd be telling her anything she doesn't already know), I always capitulate in the end. Jesus, I'd think, you owe it to the woman considering the absolute hell she's had to put up with over the years, much of which was served up by none other than yours truly. It's a weird dynamic, if you really think about it. I'm the piece of shit that fucked her husband, and she spends her time trying to make me feel better. I guess that's as clear an indicator of rock-bottom as any._

_I amused myself for a while, half-assedly trying to follow the Game, and watching Mary try her femme fatale gambit on all the age-inappropriate patrons. The great thing about Mary is, she only picks the ones she knows are gonna be awkward as hell about it. I guess having a husband like goddamn Joseph wink-out-loud Christiansen is enough to give anyone a bit of a sadistic streak. And really, who am I to judge what she does to blow off steam? Besides, sometimes it's genuinely hilarious. Like when she got to you, for instance. Man, Mary barred no holds for you: the oh-so-subtle lean-in... the hand on the arm... the slow swirl of the nail-tip around the rim of the wine glass in her hand... for christsakes, she called you "sailor" like three times. No offence, but I've never seen anyone who looked like less of a sailor._

_Which is not to say you weren't cute. And something about the way you were with Mary... a certain aloofness... made me think you might have preferred a different kind of attention._

_Someone scored, and the whole bar went apeshit. "Go team," I grunt along with all the other hollering morons, as though I gave a crap. But apparently that got your attention. I could see you eyeing me up from across the room, and that made me smile a little. It wasn't the coy, transactional look of someone who knew what they were doing, who knew exactly what they wanted to extract from you, and how little you'd be worth to them the morning after. You seemed reserved. Uncertain. And very out of place. Who am I to resist a man of mystery?_

_"Enjoying the game?" You came over to my table, beer in hand. Bold._

_"I am now that we're winning." I down the rest of my drink, then try out a smile on you._

_"We must be rooting for different teams." You smile back. Even when you smile, you look slightly worried. For some messed-up, very-likely-Freudian reason, I think it's sexy._

_"In my opinion, my team is far superior." I wiggle my eyebrows. You duck your head shyly for a second, and I know I'm in._

_Maybe I like a challenge. Or maybe I'm just a fundamentally shitty person, who gets nice strangers drunk and takes them home for a fuck-and-forget. Especially nice strangers with a face like yours, whose shirt I wanted to shred with my teeth._

_"Running from my problems," you'd said when I asked you what you were doing at a dive like Jim and Kim's. That made me laugh. Guy like you, who seemed so straight-laced and well put-together... what kind of problems could you possibly have? I didn't know. How could I have? I can't remember what I said after that. Probably some stupid line about having to powder my nose when I left to use the bathroom. I just hope I didn't... anyway._

_I was surprised when you agreed to come home with me. You seemed so unsure and taken aback that I was certain you'd run away at the first opportunity. And it's not like I eased you in. You mightn't believe me, but "So are we doing this or what?" isn't one of my choicest lines. I guess it was a kind of test. For whatever reason, I wanted to give you every out possible. Maybe it was the way you looked at me - like you were so fucking confused by it all. Like you got lost in the woods on the way to grandma's house, and I was about to eat you alive. He's not one of those guys, Robert... I remember thinking. Let it go. He's not into it._

_I could see you turning it over in your head. It's funny... I almost wanted you to say no. To turn around and go home and forget all about me. What do you think that's about? I've been thinking about it for a long while, and I still haven't reached any conclusions._

_It doesn't matter anyway. For whatever insane reason, you didn't take the out._

_And as we both agreed, I'm really fucking selfish, right?_

_The sex was decent. At least for me. But is it ever really about the sex? And after... fuck, it always happens after, and yet, every time, I manage to forget. But it catches me anyway. Traps me in. Like a cell door closing, locking with a definitive CLANK. And then they come, and the interrogation begins._

That's it, Robbie. That's all you get. You think he'll be any different from all the other ones? You think he'll be special? He'll see into your delicate, fragile snowflake soul, and stay, and  _sympathise_ , and make _decades_ and _decades_ of bad shit go away?

Why do you still bother at this point? It's pathetic. At your age? And after everything... all the broken, awful shit you've done... what makes you even dare _think_ you're worthy?

You're a thief. You're a fucking grifter. You just _love_ taking things that don't belong to you, don't you? Poor Mary knows that best, right? And let's face it, Robbie... you were an asshole long before then... long before Maple Bay, and Joseph and Mary and any of it....

 _Sometimes I can take it. They're not so loud I can't stand it. I can get by (with a little help from my friends). But the night you were there... god... they were unbearable. And as an extra special treat, they all sounded like_ him _._

_It's weak, I know. It's fucking pathetic. But I didn't want to be alone then. That's all. With you there, I could tune it all out. Make myself listen instead to the sound of your even breaths, feeling a tingle spread across the back of my neck as I did. I think I even managed to drift off for a bit._

_And then I felt you get up to leave, and stupidly, irrationally, I wanted to scream, like a kid who's afraid of the dark: NO, NONONONONO, I'LL DO ANYTHING, JUST PLEASE,_ _PLEASE DON'T GO._

 _Anything,_ anything, _to keep the voices at bay. Just until sleep repossesses me and makes it all better again._

_I can't even remember the nonsense that came out of my mouth. But like a miracle, you stayed, as though you could hear the inside of my head. I didn't harbour any illusions. I know your reasons were more to do with getting a full eight hours than actually wanting to spend any time with some drunken trainwreck you'd just met. But I can accept those terms._

_It's been weeks, but I swear I can still remember the feel and smell and taste of you from that night. The outlines of your body. The heat from your skin. The way you seemed like an anchor in a sea of black, like safety, even though it was only temporary, only for the night, only in my sick sad imagination. Even as I berated myself that it's all just in my head... a shadow-play that'll vanish as soon as the first fingers of light come creeping in through the blinds._

_I'm really fucking sorry, Vaughan. I couldn't say it to your face. Not properly, the way you deserve, because I'm such a goddamn coward. But I'm so, so sorry that you ever met me._


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vaughan and Hugo chapter. Wherein Hugo gets his Freud on, and Vaughan learns a few things about Robert.

I'm sitting across the table from Hugo at our French diner. In recent weeks, it's become our go-to Friday night hangout. We split our customary bottle of wine and cheese platter, and take time to just offload and decompress. The red-and-white checkered tablecloths and soft candle lighting have become synonymous with friendly routine and comfort. It's just so _nice_ to have adult conversation in my life again. And of course, Amanda mocks me relentlessly for it. "Dad, cheese boards come before the seniors cruise. And after that, you're basically ready for the retirement home. And probably osteoporosis."

Tonight, however, the only thing on the menu is a debilitatingly awkward disclosure. It's been a week since I last saw Robert, and I need to check in with someone saner than myself so I can get off this hamster wheel of anxiety and guilt. I keep thinking I might run into him any day now - in the street on my way to work, at the grocery store when Amanda and I are shopping for pizza ingredients, at the park when I'm stretching my legs - and I'll have no freaking idea what to say to him. Of course, I could ignore him, pretend everything's copacetic, that I didn't say any of the things I said, but... somehow that seems worse. The coward's way out. So I decided to do what any mature, sensible adult would do in my situation: whine to my friend about it over a good amount of liquor.

Now, having spent the last twenty minutes telling Hugo everything that's happened over the past month or so, I feel like I'm waiting for a trial verdict. I take another swig of the house red, but my mouth still feels dry.

"So... that's the story."

"I... see." Hugo tries to hide a smile under the guise of thoughtfully stroking his moustache, but his eyes give him away.

"Oh come _on_. You swore you wouldn't judge."

"Nono... no judgement here," Hugo adjusts his glasses. "I mean, he's not my type, but I can certainly see the appeal from an objective standpoint. He has a certain... disheveled Hugh Jackman thing going on."

"Hah. Actually, at one point, I thought he was a bit like Stanley Kowalsky." I sigh. "God, that sounds bad... I'm sure he doesn't deserve that."

"Well, he doesn't, but I'm sure he could rock the white t-shirt look."

"I'm sure. But Hugo... I really don't think I'm _into_ Robert. And I know how perverse that sounds. Why would you sleep with someone if you don't even like them, right? Especially at our age. It's ridiculous. It's the kind of thing you do in college because you think you're being so edgy and free-thinking and anti-establishment or whatever, but _now_?"

Hugo's moustache twitches. "Well, _personally_ , I'm not a day over twenty-five, but your point still stands, I suppose." He lifts his glass, taking a long, pensive sip. "So... if I may ask: why _did_ you sleep with Robert? From what you've described of Alex, he seems... well, basically the polar opposite, no?"

And that's the million dollar question. "Honestly? I wish I knew. I haven't done anything like that in a long time. After Alex, I basically went into hibernation. I don't know why I agreed to go home with him. Or why I went back there when he messaged me. We may differ on this, but I don't always have a sane, rational reason for everything I do." Hugo lifts his glass in a mock toast.

"But..." I continue, "with Amanda leaving for college in a few months... I've just been thinking a lot about Alex. I mean _a lot_ , like he's with me all the time, following me around in my head. Maybe I was just looking for a distraction... as horrible as that sounds." I stop to ponder this. Maybe Robert's not the culpable one after all.

"And you're right... Robert is definitely nothing like Alex. But maybe that was the point. If he had been... it would have felt too much like betrayal. Honestly, it does anyway. I still feel married. Is that crazy? Does any of this make sense?"

Hugo smiles, not unkindly. "It's not crazy at all. In my case, Jonathan was the one who wanted to part ways, and I still feel some strange sense of loyalty to him. When I'm with friends and they say things, even if they're just trying to commiserate, I still find myself defending him. Part of it is for Ernest's sake, of course, but... argh. Maybe that's when you know you're finally a real adult. When you can't even get mad at your ex without rationalising the bejeezus out of it." He purses his lips. "Anyway... it's an interesting little dance between yourself and Mr. Small. Maybe there is some credence to 'opposites attract'."

I grimace. "Maybe he just caught me off-guard. God, you don't think that's what all the whiskey was about..."

"No, that's not... Robert wouldn't... I mean, I'd like to think I know him well enough. The whole family, in fact."

The _who_ now?

"The whole family? As in...?"

"Oh, I don't suppose you would have had that conversation." Hugo smiles wryly. "Robert was married, you know. It seems like such a long time ago now, but it wasn't really, in the grand scheme of things. His wife's name was Marilyn. And their little girl, Val... oh, but she's all grown up now. 25, I think, or maybe 26?"

Mind. _Blown_.

Wait... the photograph on Robert's wall... that must be Val? But if she's in her twenties, why is that the only picture Robert has of her? And Marilyn... are they divorced?

"I'm sorry... my brain is still adjusting to this information. Robert was _married_? Christ, Robert is a _dad_? How do you _know_ all this?"

"Well, it's not like it's a big secret, Vaughan. Don't forget, I've been living in this neighbourhood for a long time. I met the Smalls when they were newcomers to Maple Bay, like yourself. Val was one of my first students when I was a bright-eyed, newly-appointed teacher at that school. She was such a smart girl - so much spark and just... _intuition_ , you know? A lot like Amanda."

My heart swells at that. Sue me. The parental ego is easily tickled.

"But her situation was as different from Amanda's as you could imagine. It was no secret that the Smalls had a rather... tumultuous home life. As bright as Val was, she also acted out a lot. Skipping classes... giving her teachers hell, the ones that rubbed her the wrong way, in any case. The conundrum was, both Marilyn and Robert were good people. Individually. But somehow, together, all they could do was rip each other to shreds. And quite publicly too. I guess they thought they were staying together for Val's sake, but... sometimes kids are smarter than any of us. That little girl left as soon as she got into her top-choice school, all the way in New York. I think she's working for some marketing firm now."

I'm completely hooked. "And what happened to Marilyn? She left too?"

Hugo grips the edge of the table, leaning back with a sigh. "That... hm. That was a sad thing. She passed away the year after Val left for college. Car accident. Not far from the marina, as I recall. The car... god... I guess she must have been swerving to avoid something... the car went through the barrier, right into the water."

"Jesus... poor Marilyn. And poor Robert." I can't believe any of this.

And to think... to think that I'd told him... god, I'm horrible.

"Poor Robert indeed. Not that he was ever much of a talker, but after that, he basically became a complete recluse. And Val... I guess things were already complicated between them. Apart from the funeral, I don't think she's come back to Maple Bay since. God, the two of them at Marilyn's funeral... Val wouldn't even look at Robert. She sat right in the back, and left as soon as the service was over. And Robert... I hate to say it, but I think he needed quite a bit of liquid courage just to get through the whole thing." Hugo shakes his head, staring at the flickering candle on the table. "How does a family get that way? I could never understand it. And I don't know if I want to."

"Does anyone know what happened, exactly? I mean... what if there was another car, or... "

Hugo shrugs. "The police statement was pretty vague. I don't think they ever found another car associated with the accident. I expect Robert got the full details of the circumstances, but... I don't think anyone would have broached the subject with him."

I clasp my hands, not knowing what to say. "God... and that's Robert's story, I guess."

"Yes. Well... insofar as anyone's story can be neatly packaged into a five-minute telling." Hugo looks directly at me. "Vaughan... I know you'll be discrete about all this. The reason I mention any of it is... I guess I just want you to know that there's more to Robert than what you've seen so far. I know he might come across a certain way, but he's also the person that used to take his daughter for bike rides in the park every weekend, and volunteered at church bake sales, and tried his best to make a difficult marriage work. And, not to be indelicate, but... he also knows what it's like to have lost someone. You might find you have more in common than you think."

I breathe in deeply, looking up at the ceiling.

"Besides..." he adds, "anyone with a dog like Betsy can't be all bad, right?"

I laugh, thinking of Betsy's euphoric expression when she saw me at the door. "God, Hugo... I almost wish you hadn't told me any of this. I already felt guilty enough when I thought he was just a garden-variety jerk."

"Well, to be fair, he can certainly be... challenging. But he's a lot of other things too. Like most of us, no?" Hugo quizzes me, eyes wide.

"You're very wise, Mr. Vega." I'm suddenly very grateful to have Hugo as a friend. Someone I can actually talk to, instead of making the same tired circles in my own dysfunctional thought-circuitry.

Hugo chuckles. "I'm an English teacher, Mr. Thompson. Wisdom is commensurate with destitution."

"Hell, I'll drink to that."


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in a familiar bar not so far away...  
> Songs referenced - ["Rehab" (Amy Winehouse)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KUmZp8pR1uc%E2%80%9D>), ["Plain Sailing Weather" (Frank Turner)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QZ1yZFHhf7w).

Robert slams the shot glass down on the bar, lining it up with its four predecessors.

"Easy there, Rob."

"Sorry, Neil," he grumbles, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. He knows the setup. It's gonna be one of those nights. He's gonna act like a complete douche for absolutely no reason and then wake up tomorrow and wonder what the hell is wrong with him, that he can't just be content and  _human_ like everybody else.

The colours of the neon lights at Jim and Kim's dance around the rims of the glasses and the folds of Robert's jacket. Some game show is playing on the TV under the mounted boar's head, clashing horribly with the music from the speakers: a lady jazz singer with a dusky contralto, vehemently protesting the prospect of rehab.

"Hey handsome - buy a girl a drink?"

Robert would know _that_ voice anywhere. Society wife meets pissed-off Catholic school girl. It could only be-

"Back from the dead, huh?" He grins, turning on his stool to face her - the spill of sleek chestnut hair, barely kept in check with a black Alice band; the pale skin and delicate features, offset by dark eye shadow and the contemptuous upturn of the corner of her mouth. Yep: it's Mary alright. Robert hadn't realised how much he'd missed her in the weeks she's been away- not that he'd ever admit it.

"Back from my parents' place in Idaho, so basically the same thing. Call me Lady Lazarus. I wasn't kidding about that drink, Smalls."

"Yes mistress," Robert rolls his eyes, signalling to Neil for two more shots. "So how was Idaho?"

"Ugh, fuck Idaho. Don't even talk to me about Idaho. Just keep the shots coming. I want to wake up tomorrow firmly believing there are only 49 states." She flicks her hair and perches on the stool next to Robert's. Neil slides their drinks over, earning a smile and salute from Mary.

"Guess they asked a lot of questions, huh."

"They wouldn't shut up about Joseph. As always. How _is_ he? Why didn't you _bring_ him? Isn't he _lonely_  all by himself with the kids? Oh, you should have _brought_ him, you know how he cheers your father up. Are you two thinking about having another baby? Oh, why not? Oh, but Mare, children are such a _blessing_. _Do_ think about it, won't you? Wouldn't it be _darling_ if Christie had a baby sister? God, it's enough to make me Sylvia Plath myself." She heaves a sigh, then knocks back her whiskey like it's salvation itself.

"You're a good daughter," Robert chuckles. He knows by now that it's best to let these things play themselves out. Mary doesn't want advice (as though he's in any position to dispense it). She just wants to vent, and Robert lets her.

"I'm a fucking _saint_ , is what I am. I deserve to be canonised. _Five_ siblings, and not a _single_ one has been to see Pop since he's been in hospital. And still somehow, _I'm_ the black sheep in the family. Why do I bother, Rob."

"And I thought my family was fucked . Really puts it in perspective." Robert scratches his chin. Shit, when was the last time he even spoke to Pappy?

Or to Val?

The thought comes like a kick in the gut before he can prepare for it. Robert winces and downs his own shot.

"Bite me. I know all about your daddy issues. Your father sounds like something out of _Death of a Salesman_."

"Touche."

" _Hey_ ," Mary suddenly brightens, turning to Robert with an amused leer. "What happened in the end with you and the new kid?"

Ahhh shit. Here we go.

"What new kid?" He asks, not even convincing himself. Besides, Mary has four children - at this point she's basically a human lie detector. Suburban moms ought to be the new TV psychics.

"Don't play dumb with me, Smalls. You're not pretty enough to pull it off."

"Urrghhhh."

"C'mon," she prods his arm with a shellacked nail. "Use your big boy words."

" _Nrrrrrrrggggghhhhh_."

"You know I can keep this up all night. I'll follow you home if necessary. I'll pound on your door until I get some answers. You know I'll do it." Robert does know it. Mary always makes good on her threats. He finds her consistency refreshing.

And so he tells her, though not without significant prompting. About the first night with Vaughan. About the clusterfuck that was the second night. About the weeks in between, when Robert did his usual disappearing act, because at the end of the day, isn't it kinder than stringing some poor stranger along when we all know Robert's incapable of actual human feelings? Robert tells Mary everything. Because underneath all the eyeliner and the bullshit bravado and the bitter twist of the mouth, Mary has somehow become the only person left that Robert can talk to. Everyone else is gone. It's easy to do the math at that point.

For a while, they both say nothing, and Neil's eclectic playlist fills the silence with anxious chords and angsty vocals. "... Just give me one fine day - of plain sailing weather - and I can fuck up anything, anything..." The sailing reference reminds Robert of Joseph. He snorts. Fucking perfect. Moments like these surely confirm that we're all someone's idea of a cosmic joke.

"Well shit," is Mary's verdict, when it finally comes.

"That's it? I give you the whole confession, and that's the extent of your papal wisdom? At least jazz it up with some Ecclesiastes or something." More shots. That's what Robert needs. Something to wash away the foul taste of emotional disclosure and regret.

"Jesus, I'm just _processing_ , Rob." There's no real bite in Mary's voice. Just a subtle note of concern that makes him feel much smaller.

"What the fuck is wrong with me, M. How do I get myself into this shit." Robert buries his head in his arms on the bar. The bar is suspiciously sticky, but it's _too late for that now_.

"It's a rare talent," Mary strokes his hair with her fingertips, the way she might do with Chris if he fell off his bike, or Christie if her cookies came out wrong. The way he might do with Betsy, if she came bellyaching to him after swallowing something she really shouldn't have. "But honestly, I wouldn't beat myself up about it. You couldn't have known about... the dead husband thing."

"No. But I could have treated him like a _person_."

"Rob, be reasonable. You slept together, once. It's not like there was a soul-bond and a dowry involved. It was a casual situation. Maybe he just blew up because he had a bad day. You don't know."

Robert chews on this for a while, and all the things he can't say aloud. Casual. That's how Joseph had tried to explain everything away in the end. It's remarkable really. The way he could distance himself, detach himself from the heaviest of consequences, from all the sheer ugliness that followed, with one word. Robert hated it. Hated the _pity_ behind it. Hated how close it was to its lexical cousin, one with a vastly different meaning: _casualty_. Hated how he then went and made a complete hypocrite of himself, once again, because what has he done in all the years since but try to master Joseph's trick? All those men... men whose faces he doesn't even remember, let alone their names. And he tried to make Vaughan one of them. Vaughan, who's obviously still hurting...

"The more interesting question is... why does it bother you this much?" Mary's query snaps him back.

"Whaddya mean?"

"You've hooked up with other guys before. I recall at least a couple who were less than _delighted_ about it after you blew them off the next day. And now that I think about it, I don't remember there being any callbacks. Like, ever. So, what's different this time?"

Robert frowns. What _is_ different? He knows there's a simple answer, but it's swimming around in his whiskey-logged head and so hard to pin down...

"You wanna know what I think?" Mary smirks, and Robert knows what's coming.

"No."

"Oh c'mon, hear me out," she coos. "It's a good one."

"Fuck no."

"I think you like him."

"Eat me."

"No, really, you _like_ him. Think about it. Why else would you be all mopey about this? You're a brilliant compartmentaliser, Smalls - better than me, even. So why haven't you moved right along like every other time? Can you honestly say that you don't have-"

"NO-"

"- just the _teensiest_ -"

"Stop it-"

"-tiniest bit of a-"

"Damn it, woman-"

"- thing for him?"

Mary didn't need an answer by that point. Robert's look says everything. A mixture of fear, resignation, and something else... something that Mary almost didn't recognise because she's never seen it in Robert before.

He looked... almost... _hopeful_.

"Smalls, are you _blushing_?"

Oh, not this shit again. He groans.

Mary laughs a beautiful, spiteful laugh. "Ah, but the course of true love never did run smooth..."

"I hate you."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You left me, sweet, two legacies..."
> 
> Why going for a midnight stroll is always, indisputably, a good idea.
> 
> Also, happy Halloween to anyone who's into that.

_Alex is in bed with me, in the black silk pyjamas I so often tease him about. My head is rested on his chest, and I can feel his warmth through the sleek fabric. He strokes my hair with an absent-minded hand, a book in the other. I wonder if he'll read to me in his rich, low voice. He puts on an accent when it's Shakespeare, or the Gawain Poet, because he knows it never fails to send the good kind of shivers down my back._

_I know this is a dream. I know this. My mind is aware of this. But my mind also believes that I can keep him here somehow. My treacherous, deluded mind believes it can trap this moment and draw it out infinitely, as long as I can find a way not to wake up._

_"What are you reading?" I ask._

_"Dickinson," he replies, planting a kiss on my crown. "Any requests?"_

_"Mmm..." I nuzzle against him, trying to bury myself deeper. "You pick."_

_"Hmm." I hear the rustling of pages. He's slow and methodical, in this and everything else. "How about... You left me, sweet, two legacies..."_

But I can already feel the damp on my eyes, squeezed tight, and I can feel the clench of my jaw, and even as I cling harder to him, I know that it's a dream, I know....

But please. Please. PLEASE.

Let me keep him, for just a little longer... I'll do anything...

The damp becomes a steady, maddening trickle. Falling across my cheek. Staining the pillow.

Please...

I'm awake.

I draw myself into a tight ball, so as not to make a sound. The sobs convulse through me, silently. The routine is all too familiar.

Let it happen. Wait it out. Try not to think.

But the words still come to me without prompting, a final thread between sleep and wakefulness, because it was one of his favourites, and habits formed over years do not require thought:

 _You left me, sweet, two legacies,-_  
_A legacy of love_  
_A Heavenly Father would content,_  
_Had He the offer of;_

 _You left me boundaries of pain_  
_Capacious as the sea,_  
_Between eternity and time,_  
_Your consciousness and me._

*

I shuffle, zombie-like, to the kitchen and grab myself a glass. From experience, I know I won't be able to get back to sleep. Not any time soon. The glowing numbers on the microwave read 12:03am. Fucking perfect.

It's not always this bad. In fact, it hasn't been for a long while. It's just... hard to predict. The insomnia. The dreams. They were awful in the beginning, relentless and vivid. For what seemed like forever, I thought they would never stop. What's worse, part of me didn't want them to, if it meant a glimpse of Alex, a few more moments. But gradually, time worked its usual magic. Days became months, became years. Birthdays... holidays... anniversaries passed.

It's amazing what you can get used to.

Except...

Except that years later, there are still nights like tonight, when I have to write off the very idea of sleep. When I feel like I can't breathe properly.

From the window above the sink, I peer out to the well-lit street. Everything is so calm, almost mockingly so. The trees lining the sidewalks barely ripple. The street lights are comforting in their steady glow. No couples walking their dogs. No children on their bikes. No passers-by with friendly questions at the ready. Just the night, and the quiet.

Maybe I'll go for a walk.

*

Stepping out onto the porch, I draw crisp night air into my lungs, and feel a tiny bit better. It's a beautiful neighbourhood, even if it still doesn't quite feel like mine. The well-tended gardens of tulips, daffodils, crocuses, and so many others that I could never put a name to. The meticulous lawns and hedges. The maples, birches and cherry trees keeping their still and solemn vigil. But at this hour, their shapes seem strange, dissociated from anything that could easily be recognised in the familiarity of daylight.

It takes a while for my eyes to adjust. To turn to the two-storey cottage past the Christiansens' stately ranch. To spot the slumped silouhette on its porch steps, and the red pinprick glow of a cigarette.

It's Robert.

_Fuck. No. Abort mission. There's no shame in turning tail._

But before I can happily give in to my usual avoidant tendencies, I remember what Hugo had told me.

_"... there's more to Robert than what you've seen so far..."_

I also remember my (admittedly wine-fuelled) resolution as I was walking home, that I would make a genuine effort to _talk_ to Robert the next time I saw him. That I would apologise for everything I'd said, even though by this point, I'm not sure what the score is, or indeed what the game is.

Inhale... exhale.

Only one way to find out.

Robert doesn't turn as I approach his house. He seems lost in thought, pulling occasionally from his cigarette, before dispelling the smoke in a drawn-out, almost cartoonish huff. In the dim street light, the angles and hollows of his face seem even more dramatic. Like something from the golden age of Italian neorealism. Or like he's about to make a deal in an alleyway, and have it go badly.

"Long time, stranger." I stop still on the pavement outside his house, trying to tune out the part of my brain that's shrieking about what a gargantuan mistake this is.

Robert starts, looking up with an antagonistic frown. For a moment, I completely regret my decision, wondering what I'd do if he pulls one of his plethora of knives on me. But then he recognises me, and his eyes soften, lips tightening into an uncertain smile.

"Long time indeed." His voice is uncertain, but there's no anger or ill-feeling that I can detect. "Kinda late to be out, huh?"

I'm distracted by an impulse to walk up to him and snatch the cigarette from his mouth. _It's bad for you, dammit._

"I could say the same." I offer instead.

"Hey. Normal operating hours for me." Not for the first time, it makes me wonder what Robert actually does for a living.

"You lead a salubrious existence." I try to smile.

He forces a chuckle. _Yes, that's it. Embrace the awkward with me. Really lean into it. Fuck._

"Yeah, well... me and existence. We don't always get along."

"Nor do we tonight," I admit. "Mind if I join you?"

He sizes me up, and I try to keep my gaze level.

"Knock yourself out," he decides, gesturing at the space next to him. I take the offer and sit. The concrete step is cold, but I'll just have to suck it up.

"Robert..." I start... then come up blank. Well, shit. I really should have given this more thought. What do people even say in these situations?

Has anyone else been in anything like this situation, in the history of _ever_?

It doesn't take long before all the little factions of my mind start warring with each other.

_Just go home, Vaughan. Give it up. He doesn't want to hear anything you have to say. Why would he?_

_No, stand your ground. Don't be a wimp. You're already here. You can't back out now. If you leave now, you won't even be able to look at him again._

_Yeah. Sure. Stay. Because you're doing such a stellar job so far. Look how rapt he is._

_Who cares. Just keep talking. It'll all make sense later._

I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship with my multiple personalities.

"I've been thinking a lot, and I want to say that I'm sorry." I force it out before I can change my mind. "About what I said to you last time. I've had a lot on my mind lately. But I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I didn't mean any of it-" I hope the tremor in my voice isn't as audible to him as it is to me. How is any of this coming across to him? Confusing? Or worse, insincere? I wish he wasn't so damn hard to read.

"Vaughan-" Robert scratches his chin, looking pained and ready to bolt.  _Great job, Vaughan. That's the effect you have on him. Encore._

"No, please... honestly. I was a jerk, and I had no right. I'm sorry, Robert."

_Except it's too little too late now, isn't it? You're gonna tell me to get off your property and go the fuck home. Any minute now..._

"You're not the one who should be sorry."

_Wait, what?_

I allow myself a glimpse of his face - he looks as uncomfortable as I feel, his eyes cast down at his well-worn leather boots, as though everything is their fault. He's talking as though through gritted teeth, cigarette perched precariously between his fingers. "I was... I mean... I'm just... Jesus, I'm _really_ fucking bad at this stuff."

"What, apologies?" I try to keep my voice low and steady, as though he'd make a break for it if I said the wrong words. Or said them the wrong way.

"Yeah. Among other things." He sighs.

I huff out a weak laugh, relieved I haven't completely fucked up. "Honestly, I wouldn't say it was my forte either."

Robert gives me an uncertain smile. "Look at us. Having things in common."

"Indeed."

We sit in silence. I wonder what he's thinking. I wonder if he believes me when I say I'm sorry. I also wonder if Joseph Christiansen has ever had a stern word with him about his unkempt lawn. It must drive Captain America crazy, having Robert's hot mess next to his own fastidious yard.

"You didn't answer my question," Robert points out after a while.

"Which question?" I stall. I'm not sure how much I want to get into right now, given our recent conversational history.

"Why are you out so late?" Robert seems genuinely concerned. No smirk this time. No snark. No innuendo. His dark eyes slightly widened, making him look disarmingly boyish. I almost want to say... sweet. 

_What would happen..._

He draws his knees up to lean on them - is he cold? I vaguely remember something about alcohol lowering core body temperature. 

_What would happen if you just told him the truth?_

I haven't talked to anyone about Alex in a long time. Hugo, sure, in passing - but I try not to dwell too long or too often on the subject, because he clearly has enough ex-spousal problems of his own. And as open as Amanda and I are with each other, she's been doing so well lately that I don't want to burden her with old memories and old hurt. When things had been at their worst - days when I couldn't bring myself to leave the bed, when basic human functioning required extraordinary reserves of energy that I just didn't have - Amanda had gently suggested therapy. But I'd stubbornly refused, and once I'd forced myself back into some semblance of a normal routine, the topic never came up again.

The truth.

The truth is that I still talk to him sometimes, when I'm driving home from work. When I'm taking a stroll in the park, and there's no one else around. When I wake up from a dream I desperately want to remember, but the details are already slipping away.

"Couldn't sleep. I had a dream." I say, carefully, almost robotically, not trusting myself to look at Robert, opting to stare instead at the amber glow of the street light directly across from us. "About my husband. My late husband, I should say. His name was Alex."

His name was Alex. It seems so pitiful, so inadequate. His name was Alex, and I loved him more than anything. Loved him with the kind of love that felt like necessity rather than choice.

"I'm sorry." Robert says simply. I wonder if he's thinking of Marilyn. I almost want to ask him outright... but Hugo had asked me to be discrete.

"So am I. I thought I was done missing him, but... maybe you're never done."

A shiver starts to crawl over my skin. Trying to stop only seems to make it worse. But just as I'm hoping to god he doesn't notice, Robert ashes his cigarette. He shrugs off his jacket, and drapes it over my back with surprising gentleness. I didn't realise just how cold I'd been until the warmth envelopes me, along with the heady mix of tobacco and leather. I close my eyes, feeling inexplicably safe. It's almost like being held by Robert himself. I breathe in deep.

Yes please... more of this...

"Better?" He asks, his voice low, almost a whisper.

I try to muster a grateful smile. "You didn't have to... now _you're_ gonna be cold."

"Most people just say thank you."

"Thank you... Sir Robert the Chivalrous. Who'd have thunk it?" I pull his jacket tighter around me. It's slightly too big, which I find comforting.

He grins, and it strikes me how even though he looks so serious so much of the time, he seems more like himself when he smiles. "Yeah well... don't go telling the whole neighbourhood. I have a reputation to uphold."

"I'll keep your secrets. For a price."

"And what might that be?"

"I'll think of something." I'm grinning too at this point, the lower half of my face hidden by Robert's jacket. This turned out to be a good idea after all. Intending to leave things on a high note, I get up and stretch.

"You know..." I turn to face him, mock-serious. "It's probably too late for me. But I think if you have a heart-to-heart with existence, really plead your case, maybe it'll change its mind about you."

Robert strokes his chin meditatively. "Nah. It's probably too late for me too. At least we'll be doomed together."

"I should get home. Try to sleep. And so should you."

"Don't tell me what to do, _mom_."

I roll my eyes. "Here-" I start to take off the jacket, but Robert stops me.

"Nah, keep it for the trip. You can give it back tomorrow. Or whenever."

Whaddya know. Robert Small. A gentleman after all.

"Deal. Wanna shake on it?"

Robert takes my hand... then, before I fully realise what's happening, he stands up to press a kiss against my lips. Soft. Without expectation. My hand gripped in his, so I can feel his rough skin. His other hand reaches up to cradle my face, gentle and unassuming, completely different from the first night.

Then, as quickly as it happens, he pulls away.

"What was that for?" I can still taste him, the burnt-raisin taste of cigarette smoke. Evidence that it really happened.

He shrugs, scratching his head. "Consider it a proper apology," he says, with a smile I can't quite read, turning towards his door. "Good night, Vaughan."

"Good night, Robert."

As I watch him walk inside and close the door softly behind him, I realise something: I'd inadvertently lied to Hugo. I'd told him I'm not really interested in Robert. That Robert had only been a distraction, and nothing more.

A kiss like that... really puts things into perspective.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robert Chapter II: When Robert met Marilyn...
> 
> I'm always curious to know other people's take on Robert/Marilyn. The game doesn't give a whole lot away. We know she dies in an accident after Val leaves for college. Robert surmises that she must have died hating him, which I assume means they had an argument or were just in a bad place maritally before it happened. Tied up with all that is a whole other (but possibly related?) line of inquiry about Robert's sexuality and how that figured into his marriage.
> 
> Then there's the Joseph thing - the general assumption seems to be that it happened after Marilyn died. But I actually lean more towards it happening before. More on that in chapters to come.
> 
> As always, other perspectives are welcome!

_I don't know what to say to you._

_I keep thinking about the way you looked when you were talking about Alex. How careful you were, because if you weren't, the cracks would show. The dam would break. You wouldn't be able to stop._

_Should I have told you about Marilyn? Is that how these things work? Is grief a thing that people trade? Christ, I'm so out of practice when it comes to other human beings._

_After the funeral, I took all her pictures down. She looked so young in every single one of them. And defiant, like she was daring the universe to throw some catastrophe her way. She was always the braver one. The one with all the ideas._

_The hopeful one._

_I've never been one for lamenting my lost youth. Even now, shitty and broken as things may be. Thank fucking god I'm not in my twenties anymore, I always think. The anxiety of being young. The panic over absolutely nothing. Everything is so overwhelming, all the time, but you know you're not supposed to make a fuss and give the game away. That ever-present sense that someone somewhere is judging your every dumbshit miscalculated move and finding it all just_ beyond _disappointing. That nagging feeling that you've failed in life before you've even gotten started._

 _Maybe that's how Marilyn and I wound up together. We were both just a couple of stupid, messed-up kids - orphans, we used to joke, even though our parents had been very much alive and well and simmering with disapproval. It was a real_ Wuthering Heights _kinda situation_. _Not that I knew it then, but Marilyn came from old money (some shipping family that ostensibly went back to Salem days), and was desperate to get away from all the smothering expectations that came with it. "I just want to get lost once in every city in the world," she always said. Bohemian debutante, I'd mock her, and she'd swat me with the nearest hard object._

_I guess I was the perfect mark: Robert Small, confused, bearingless, willing to go along with any ill-conceived scheme as long as it smacked of adventure. We spent a long time travelling everywhere after she'd finished college (I'd dropped out after a semester because life got in the way, and y'know, fuck the system). We worked odd jobs when we had to, but mostly we were just taking it all in - life, experience. We wanted as much of it as we could get, as though we were already running out of time._

_The truth is, we were both selfish. But we took care of each other as best we could. Maybe we were both terrified of being alone. And when all's said and done, Marilyn was one of the very few people who really knew me. Without ever talking about it in so many words, we fell into an arrangement. An 'open relationship - is that what people call it now? By then we were renting an apartment in Brooklyn, NYC, and no one gave a fuck what you did, as long as it was in your own time and on your own dime. For a while, we enjoyed the novelty of being able to ogle the same men in the street, or at our favourite bars._

_Of course, when Val came along, all that had to change. "It's time we grow up, Rob," she'd said to me once, while we sat side-by-side in the waiting room at the gynecologist's office. We'd just had an argument (well-rehearsed by then) about whether we should move somewhere quieter, safer than the city._

_Among other things, we needed money. More than we had, or so I thought at the time. By that point, Marilyn and I were stretched very thin and fighting all the time. She never said so, but I could tell she didn't think I was doing enough. She told me about her family. Said her parents could help us. I refused. Hated the whole thing. I knew exactly what they thought about me. Hilarious, really, to think I could make her listen to anything I said._

_Last night, when you mentioned Alex (who I'm sure was every conceivable kind of perfect), I couldn't help thinking about Marilyn, and Val, and everything that happened before and since we'd moved to Maple Bay. I wondered what you'd think, if I'd told you the whole sorry saga, beginning to end._

_Strike that. I know what you'd think._

_I saw the way you lit up when you talked about your daughter, that first night at the bar. Amanda... was that her name? Anyone who talks about their kid that way, with such genuine pride and enthusiasm, would think I'm completely despicable._

_I wonder if you would have let me kiss you, if you'd known how many years it's been since I've even spoken to my own daughter._

_Or if you'd known about the Joseph thing, and what it did... what I did to Marilyn. After everything I'd already taken from her._

_See, Vaughan... you don't know me that well, but I'm not a good person._

_Which is why my heart sank today, when I woke up around noon, checked the time on my phone, and found a message from you:_

VAUGHAN:

Hey there - thanks for the company last night. I feel a lot better, and I suspect you had something to do with it. Can we catch up soon? I should give you your jacket back. With interest. :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for this one - the second part contains some discussion of domestic violence. Not gratuitous detail, but probably enough to be upsetting for some. I don't trust my own baseline for these things.
> 
> "They fuck you up, your mum and dad." - Philip Larkin. As a friend of mine is (too) fond of quoting.

"I never want to see another burrito again," Amanda winces, her hands over her stomach.

"Me neither," I agree, slightly queasy myself. "We've truly outdone ourselves this time."

"Is cheese supposed to be that _orange_?"

"I seriously doubt it. I don't think it's supposed to be that _luminous_ either. Let's just hope it wasn't stored anywhere near a nuclear waste facility." Ugh, this better not be a repeat of the McFridayz debacle.

"I do feel a perverse sense of achievement though. Kinda like the time we ate a whole cake.”

"Another fantastic life-choice, to be sure.” The mere mention of food makes my insides revolt. “I'm wavering between 'sense of achievement' and 'Pyrrhic victory' though. Definitely leaning more towards the latter."

Amanda and I are celebrating: the envelope we've been waiting and waiting for _finally_ came through the mail slot this morning - my little girl's off to the Horne Institute for the Arts. Proud doesn't begin to cover it: it's been Amanda's dream to go to Horne for so long. We've been talking about it ever since she was twelve, when she was barely out of her Sir Horsington phase (who, incidentally, inspired much of her earliest work).

I'd wanted to take her somewhere fancy, possibly somewhere with a nine-course degustation menu and dime-sized portions. But Amanda, true to her normcore leanings, just wanted a "'rito and a view".

So here we are at the bayside, recovering from two burritos-with-the-works from a nearby food truck. It's a beautiful, clear afternoon over the marina - hardly a breeze. Amanda has her camera with her, snapping shot after shot of boats at their moorings, their barely-stirring reflections, the water shimmering with vivid sunset colours... I want to enjoy as many of these moments as I can with her, hoard them up for when she's away at HIA, and I'll only get to see her once a month, if I'm lucky...

_Stop it, Vaughan. That way madness lies._

Of course, thinking about Amanda's impending departure was my main buffer against other items on my best-not-to-dwell-upon list. Namely, the fact that Robert still hasn't replied to my message from this morning.

Shamefully, I'd spent the better part of the morning cooped in my room, staring at his jacket, running my hands over the folds in the leather, worn with time but still slick enough to gleam like black oil in the right light. Smoothing the lapels between my fingers. Fidgeting absent-mindedly with the zips and the cold metallic buttons. I fended off the urge to hold it close, inhaling every trace of last night's cigarettes, faded leather, and the distinct peppery scent I'm beginning to recognise as Robert's own. Again and again, I played out our oddly comforting exchange from the night before.

The moment he turned to me with genuine worry in his eyes, asking me why I was out so late, and I almost gave in and told him everything... not just the fact that Alex is gone, but how sometimes, lying in the dark, I'd wonder if the best part of me, the part capable of flourishing instead of merely surviving, had died with him.

The moment he slipped his jacket across my shoulders, and I wanted so much to lean on his warm, solid shoulder, just to see how close he would let me get.

The moment he pressed his lips against mine like the climactic scene of a goddamn Nicholas Sparks movie, and I wanted nothing more than to just pull him in and...

Yeah, I'm going straight to hell.

True to form, I've been checking my phone every few minutes, though I really should know better by now. There's a check mark next to my Dadbook message, so _surely_ he's seen it? Maybe he's just thinking of a response? Maybe he's just not sure what his plans are for the day (but what could those _possibly_ be)? Maybe he's feeling awkward about what happened and doesn't want to deal with it just yet? Maybe he _regrets_ what happened, and just wants to ignore it (and me) until it all just fades into the background?

Or maybe he just doesn't get up that early?

The problem with a whole litany of maybes is that none of them constitute an actual, definitive answer, which I would have if Robert would just take _t_ _hirty seconds to reply to my goddamn message already_.

I check my phone again. Still nothing.

What's that thing people say about doing the same thing over and over, and expecting different results?

Oh right, it's the definition of insanity.

"Dad?" Amanda stops snapping for a second, shooting me a quizzical look.

"Huh?"

"You've gone quiet. What's going on in there?"

"Nothing, Panda. Just... enjoying the view."

A view of the sweeping landscape of my neurosis, from the window seat of the crazy-train running through my head.

I just want to _talk_ to him. That's _all_ I want. Why is it so damn hard?

I think about the Robert who fawns over a dog like Betsy; who seemed so stricken when I lashed out at him that time; who sat with me in the middle of the night and gave me his jacket when he thought I was cold. I place him side-by-side with the Robert who slept with me then ghosted me for weeks; who smokes even though it obviously bothers me; who kisses me the night before, then doesn't bother to reply the very next day. As hard as I try, I can't reconcile the two Roberts in my head.

Amanda and I continue our walk, coming round a corner. How much easier all this would be if we _were_ in some shitty Nicolas Sparks movie. Because then I'd at least have the usual _dei ex machina_ interventions at the protagonist's disposal. Fate and circumstance would be on my side. If real life abided by the Pollyanna logic of some box office romance, there would be an actual _point_ to all this angsty uncertain crap. In the world according to Nicolas goddamn Sparks, just as all signs pointed to Giving Up Forever... just as the protagonist was plodding unhappily along a sweeping ocean view, for example... the gears of cinematic contrivance would start turning, and something completely unexpected would make me-

-stop dead in my tracks.

Because straight ahead, further up the footpath, sitting on a bench with an arm draped over the back, scowling at a dazzling view of the bay... is Robert.

It occurs to me almost immediately that this is the first time I've seen him in broad daylight. He looks vulnerable somehow... more tired and washed-out than usual without his armour of night and leather. Betsy is on the bench next to him, mouth agape in a doggy grin, clearly having a much better time.

"Dad? What's up?" Amanda stops beside me.

_Well this just got really uncomfortable._ I stall, but my improv skills completely fail me. I finally settle on a stoic "Nothing," and press on, praying Robert doesn't notice us.

_How good is his peripheral vision? Is it too late to make a clean getaway? Why am I so bad at making up believable excuses to exit the scene? Maybe if I keep really quiet, it'll all be okay..._

Unfortunately, Betsy doesn't give me a chance to find out. As soon as she spots us, she bounds from the bench and makes a beeline for me as fast as her stumpy little legs would carry her, yapping with unbridled enthusiasm all the way. She's so damn adorable I don't even have the heart to be mad about my cover being blown. _Alright, little dog... do your worst._

It takes Amanda exactly one nanosecond to become completely smitten.

"Oh my god! You're sooooo _cuuuuuute_! And _squishy_... yes you are... ohmygod dad can we get a puppy??"

Yup, she's a goner. At this point, I couldn't pry her away from Betsy with a crowbar. Now, all I'll be hearing about for the next two weeks is how much _sense_ it would make to invest in a puppy now, what with her going away for college, and all the newfound spare time I'll have on my hands.

Betsy, meanwhile, is having the _b_ _est time ever,_ maniacally licking Amanda's hand and face, then flopping on her side, demanding to have her belly rubbed. Not for the first time, I think how nice it must be to be a dog, to love everything and everyone so indiscriminately.

I keep my eyes fixed on Amanda and Betsy, as though by ignoring Robert's approach I could alter the very fabric of the space-time continuum. The rules of reality, however, chose not to indulge me on this occasion.

"Hey there." His voice makes my chest tighten. I force myself to turn.

"Robert... hi." I manage, not quite making eye contact. It's not fair, I decide. It's not fair that he has those intense, inscrutable eyes, hooded by his heavy, expressive brows. It's not fair that his stubble perfectly accentuates the angles of his face, or that his dark hair, shot through with peppery streaks, falls into a perfect tousle with zero effort on his part. And it's absolutely, unscrupulously unfair that he keeps those sunglasses clipped at the plunge in his V-neck shirt, so that the slightest outline of his pecs, and the faintest trace of his chest hair, are tantalisingly visible...

Amanda looks from me to Robert, to me again. I can just pinpoint the moment she puts two and two together.

"Oh, you're _that_ Robert," she practically crows, flashing a grin at me before offering him a handshake. "I'm Amanda - the offspring. Nice to meet you. And thanks for looking after my dad that time - he really can't hold his liquor."

"Pleasure's all mine," Robert takes her hand, raising an uncertain eyebrow at me as though I'm supposed to do something about this. "And no, he really can't. We've established this well."

I start to mumble something about having to get going, but Amanda cuts me off: "I'm in love with your dog - what breed is she? He?"

"She. Betsy." Robert growls. "Boston terrier, that's what she is. And you're lucky you haven't lost a limb already. They're one of the most lethal breeds out there. Unquenchable blood-lust. The face might fool you, but that's how they attract their prey. Lure in bigger predators looking for an easy meal, then strike with deadly force when they least expect it."

Amanda blinks, then retracts her hand, slowly.

Robert grins. "Nah, I'm messin' with ya. The only dangerous thing about them is their predisposition for corneal ulcers. Big eyes. Can't help it. Very sad."

Amanda chuckles. "You almost had me."

Crouching down, Robert starts to show Amanda all the places Betsy likes to be petted and scritched. Graced with all the attention she could possibly want, Betsy looks overloaded with bliss by this point, rolling back and forth with her paws in the air, eyes narrowing to contented slits. Amanda laughs and coos, and Robert can't stop smiling.

Seeing him like this, warm and unguarded and _happy,_ stirs something in me. All my neuroses suddenly seem small and muted in comparison.

Robert gets up and turns to me, eyes still sparkling with laughter, jerking a thumb at Amanda. "She's not gonna make off with her, is she?"

"Honestly can't say," I deadpan. "She's done crazier things. One time she launched a flaming tennis ball at a police station." I'd been scared out of my mind at the time, but over the years it's become a staple Amanda anecdote.

"No shit," Robert whistles. I let out a little hum of exasperation. Of all the things to be impressed by.

"True story. Not my proudest moment as a parent, but... kids will be kids?" I shrug. "Thankfully she grew out of arson, in favour of more productive hobbies."

"Nothing wrong with a bit of casual vandalism every now and then," Robert says with the air of offering some sage, ancient wisdom. "Shows character. Can't be a sucker for authority all the time."

I genuinely can't tell if he's joking. Something tells me that even now, Robert might not have completely grown out of his casual vandalism phase. If he were the same age as Hugo's son Ernest, those two would probably get along like a house on fire. Or like a whole blazing police station.

*

We all make our way back to the cul-de-sac together, Amanda and Betsy up ahead, while Robert and I bring up the rear at a more leisurely pace. By now the sun has dipped beyond the horizon, painting the sky over with twilight hues. There's a pleasant chill in the air.

"Hope this wasn't too weird." Robert mumbles, hands in his pockets.

"Nono..." I say in a moment of knee-jerk niceness. "Well, yes. But not in a bad way. I think Amanda really likes you."

"Huh." He seems pleased. "You think so?"

"I do. And she's generally a pretty good judge of character." Which is true. Though I'm slightly dreading the interrogation I know I'm in for as soon as we get home.

Robert smiles lopsidedly. "Guess there's hope for me yet."

"Guess so. Even if you are terrible at responding to messages in a timely fashion." _Just can't help yourself, huh Vaughan._

"Yeah... sorry about that." Robert grimaces. "Had to do some thinking."

"It's okay. I get it." I don't, but... it's been a fun afternoon. Why kill the vibe now with a whole lot of questions? "Besides, uncertainty is such a turn-on."

Robert laughs in that surprisingly mellifluous way of his, and I can't help smiling back. God, I could get used to that sound.

Just then, we hear a click. I turn, and sure enough-

"Amanda!" I should have seen it coming.

She cackles. "You'll thank me later - it's a good one!"

Robert chuckles. "Honestly... you two seem like you have a good thing going." He goes quiet for a while, then adds: "Makes me a little jealous."

"Jealous? Why?" Then I remember what Hugo told me, about Robert and his family history.

"I actually-" He frowns, searching for the right words, and I realise I'll have to tread carefully. "I have a daughter too. Her name's Val. But we... don't really get along."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"You shouldn't be." His mouth twists in a scowl. "It's my fault. I guess some people just aren't father material."

Yikes.

"Father material can be pretty hard to live up to," I say, annoyed with the doubt in my own voice. "Amanda and I love each other, but I'd be lying if I said we always get along."

"It's not the same thing. With Val... I really fucked up." He takes a deep breath before he continues. "We haven't spoken to each other in... god, three or four years now."

I have no idea what to say to that. It's one thing to learn the story secondhand from Hugo, in the abstract. It's something else to hear it from Robert himself, seeing the self-accusation in every line of his face. I try to imagine a scenario that would result in Amanda and me not speaking for four years, and come up blank.

"How old is she?" I ask in the end.

"Twenty-five? Twenty-six? Christ, you'd think I'd know. But it's honestly been that long."

"Four years. Wow." _Bravo, Vaughan. Eloquence personified._

"Just say it. You think I'm a shit-sack." There's no anger in Robert's voice. Just a quiet resignation that cuts me more, and makes me want to prove him wrong. In that moment, something – someone- else comes to mind.

"No, I don't." I protest, quietly.  _I could show you a lot worse_ , is what I want to say. I turn it over in my head... how much of my history do I really want to share?

Screw it. If it helps, may as well put the past to good use.

"I'm just trying to remember how long it's been since I spoke to _my_ father." Hell, I can't even remember the last time I needed to do that particular bit of arithmetic.

"Yeah?” His eyes are fixed ahead, but I can tell he's listening.

"God... nigh on twenty years, probably." I pause, waiting to see what he would say. As nonchalant as I want to come across, there aren't many people I've told about me and my father. Alex knew, of course. Amanda got a somewhat sanitised version. Enough to know why we don't visit her grandparents on my side. I wonder what Robert would make of it.

"Fuck," is his very-insightful contribution.

"Yeah." I breathe. "So... I guess my point here is it's all relative?"

"I see what you did there."

"Without even trying." I grimace.

"What happened between you two?" He asks, serious again.

"That's what you might call a long story. Probably best saved for another time.” I pause. “Suffice it to say there was quite a bit of physical violence involved. Among other things."

I never know how to talk about it. There's always a knee-jerk part of me that sneers, telling me I'm being melodramatic. That a lot of people have had it much, much worse. _You're just being weak. You just want easy attention. And how do you even know you're remembering it right? It was such a long time ago._

But then I recount the facts, like a string of grim Hail Marys. I remind myself that the fear was real. The bruises were real. The time he locked me out of the house all night. The time he had his arm around my neck... And how absurd it was, how insane, that the next day, or week, we'd all act as though nothing happened.

"I'm sorry. That's despicable." Robert snarls, shaking his head. "Not that I'm getting Father of the Year anytime soon, but I would never..."

I shrug it off, but inside I breathe a massive sigh of relief that we're on the same page about that particular issue. "Like I said. It's all relative. Anyway, it was a long time ago. And obviously we've all moved on with our lives, so..."

It's not often that I think about my father. I keep in contact with my mother sporadically, and I figure she would let me know if he was ever in hospital or anything. Otherwise, we're exactly where I want us to be: on totally different continents, with vast stretches of ocean in between.

Sometimes though... and I mean once in the bluest of moons, I think about the day I'll get the inevitable call. And what a shame it will be that we never spent just one day, just one _hour_ in each other's company - fishing, playing chess, taking a walk, _anything_ \- and genuinely enjoying that time together, without fear or anger or bitterness or recrimination.

That's what I find myself thinking on those fleeting occasions: not about love and its absence, remorse and forgiveness, all the larger-than-life questions that only beget more questions, never answers... but just the fact that I'll never get to spend one good hour with the man who's supposed to be my _father._ My champion. My best friend in the whole world.

"Do you mind if I ask what happened with Val?" I ask, trying to steer my mind anywhere else.

"That's another one for the long story basket,” says Robert. “But there was a lot going on with me and Marilyn - that's Val's mom. Things got... complicated. And Val got caught in between." He sighs, eyes cast down. "Anyway, she's in New York now, working for some new media company and making buckets. I'd like to think she's happier now than she would be if she'd stayed. Marilyn died a few years ago... I guess Val didn't have any reason to hang around in Maple Bay after that."

Except you, I wanted to say. But I bit my tongue, because Robert clearly didn't see it that way.

"I'm really sorry, Robert. That's... well, that's a lot."

Robert smiles weakly. "You, my friend, have a talent for understatement."

"We all have to be good at something."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When Vaughan talks about his father, I keep thinking about ["20 Years"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uyLsj0xKCuA) by The Civil Wars.  
> But that's only because I have an unhealthy fixation with The Civil Wars.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's all going to be okay."
> 
> Amanda chapter, just in case anyone forgot 'Dream Daddy' is about, y'know, dads. :)

I close the front door behind me with a sigh.

Well, if nothing else, at least I got to return Robert's jacket. Though I don't think Amanda's eyebrows could have gone any higher when I came back out of the house with it. God knows what was going through her head. After giving Betsy one last pat, she'd gone back inside with a wave and left me and Robert with each other. We stood there like a pair of awkward prom dates. Me shifting my weight from one foot to the other, while he scuffed his boot on the pavement.

"So... how about a drink sometime?” He'd finally mumbled. To break the silence or because he genuinely wanted to, I couldn't tell.

“Sure thing. Just let me know when.”

I watched him saunter back to his own place, Betsy at his heels, before heading back inside the house.

“Amanda?” I call from the hallway.

“In here.” She calls back from the living room. I find her ensconced on the couch with her camera, going through her bounty from the marina. She has her serious photographer face on, and I can't tell if her pursed lips and slight frown are directed solely at the pictures, or if there's something else on her mind.

“Any prizewinners?” I ask, plonking myself next to her on the couch. She tucks her legs in to give me room.

She looks up and give me a bright smile, to my relief. “Quite a few – if you're lucky I'll show you later.”

I try to sneak a peek, but she whips the camera away, grinning. I cross my arms and turn away, feigning rejection.

“So that was Robert, huh?” Ah. So we're talking about this after all.

“That was Robert,” I concur.

“He seems...” She's obviously trying to find the right word. And failing. Because really, how does one encapsulate someone like Robert Small in one word. “Interesting? I seriously thought about kidnapping his dog at one point, but... he basically lives right next to us, so.”

“You should do it just before you leave for HIA. These things are all about timing. I'll cover your tracks, keep mum about your whereabouts. Just promise you'll call me on a burner phone every now and then.”

Amanda smiles. But it's the polite sort of smile that comes before a question. “Dad... you and Robert.... do you... are you...?”

She make s a face. Poor kid.

“Are we... seeing each other?” I ask quietly.

“I guess that's one way of putting it.” She bites her lip.

“No. We're not,” I tell her. “But I do think there might be... something there? I'm just not sure _what_. Or what I should do about it. If anything.”

Amanda brings her fingertips together in front of her lips. Something she picked up from Alex when she was little. He'd always do the exact same thing when he was thinking about what to say next, especially if he was about to give advice.

“Seems like the sort of thing where you start small and see what happens, right?”

“Maybe.” I say, exhaling slowly. “At this point, I'm not sure I even know how to do that.”

We sit in silence for a while, pondering the age-old questions: who should make the first move, and how?

“More importantly,” I say, nudging her ankle, “how would you feel about it if I did... make a start?”

“With Robert?”

“With anyone.”

Amanda smirks. “Considering how long I've been trying to get you out of the house, I think you know the answer to that one.”

“True. But if it's something you're not comfortable with, for _any_ reason, I really do want to know.”

“Dad, honestly, I'd be happy as long as you're happy.” Just as I'm swelling with gratitude and relief, she adds: “Besides, I'd actually feel better about leaving for college if I knew I wasn't leaving you completely alone.”

“I wouldn't be _completely_ alone.” I protest.

She blinks at me, blank-faced.

“Dad, no offence, but you're basically the most antisocial person I know.”

“That's a gross exaggeration. I take umbrage.”

“Really?” She cocks her head. “Name _one_ friend you made since we moved here.”'

Dammit. Why do I blank at crucial moments like these.

“Hugo!” I finally manage.

“I sincerely hope my _English teacher_ isn't the best you can do.”

“How am I supposed to win here if you keep arbitrarily raising the bar?” I pout.

“Seriously though, dad. It's about time you started dating again. I mean, it's a little weird, I'm not gonna lie, but...” she shrugs, looking at me. “It's healthy, right?”

“I don't know if there's necessarily a timeframe on these things, Panda. Plus, I don't even know if I'm ready.”

“Well, do you like Robert?”

_Well kid... do you want the short answer or the long answer?_

“I do. But obviously it's not just up to me. And I don't know if Robert is in the right headspace to be dating.”

“Why not?” I've always thought that if the photography thing didn't work out, Amanda would have a stellar future in investigative journalism.

“If I tell you, you'll keep it to yourself?”

“Cross my heart.”

“Robert's wife passed away a few years ago. And his daughter... apparently they don't talk to each other anymore. Honestly, I think he has some stuff to work though. Dating is probably the last thing on his mind.”

Amanda breathes a long sigh. “Well that's heavy.”

“You said a mouthful.”

She picks up her camera again, inspecting it for something, her photographer frown working overtime. “So he doesn't have any family?”

“I guess not?” I feel a flash of guilt that the thought hadn't crossed my mind before. I couldn't imagine how lonely I'd be without Amanda _and_ Alex. And come to think of it, does Robert have any friends in the neighbourhood? Does he have _anyone_? The idea of him left to his own devices in that house... for some reason it makes me very uncomfortable.

But Amanda isn't done yet. “Putting all that aside though... do _you_ want to date _him_?”

“I.... don't think that's something I can just _decide_.”

“Why not?”

“Because it's more complicated than that. I mean, how do you decide if you're attracted to someone?”

“You don't have to decide. You just are, or you're not. Right?”

“Sure. If it's just about whether or not you like the way they look, or if you have personalities that gel. But what about the rest of it? What about how compatible you actually are, on a day-to-day basis? How much you're willing to trust them? To what extent you're willing to invest your time and energy into getting to know them better? Those are all decisions. And honestly, Panda, I've kinda forgotten how to make those decisions. I haven't had to in a really long time. Besides, I never really had much practice to begin with.”

 _And could it be_ , it occurs to me, _that Robert's in the same boat?_ I've been wondering from the start if he's playing games and dodging me on purpose. But maybe he's just... rusty, like me. And even if we don't leap into anything 'romantic' right away... maybe we could both do with some company.

I stop for a while and think, because the next part is trickier still.

“Plus... I still miss your father sometimes. I know everyone says you should try to move on after so long, and it's part of the grieving process, blah blah blah... but it just doesn't feel right somehow.”

“Doesn't feel right how?”

I sigh. How do I explain to Amanda something that I haven't even been able to articulate to myself? But I press on, hoping it all falls into some kind of sense. “When you love someone, especially for a long time, you want to believe in their uniqueness... their singularity. You don't want to think of them as something replaceable. For the longest time, before I met your father... I honestly thought I would never fall in love, or get married, or have a child. I know that sounds silly _now_ , but I was very young, and I was very stubborn about myself. And who I thought I was.”

Amanda looks at me with wide eyes, and I give her a rueful smile. _All that time I wasted, Alex... I'm so sorry._

“Your father taught me a lot of things, including how to see myself differently. And that took a lot of time. And patience. We used to have some pretty interesting arguments. Most of which consisted of me trying to convince him I was a lost cause, and him trying to make me see how ridiculous that was.”

And from the beginning, Alex was the one who was always telling me it'll all be okay. That's what I'll always miss most about him, the way he could always put me at ease. Sometimes I hated myself for needing so much reassurance, for needing to be convinced that I'm actually worth loving. But he always made it seem like it was a charming quirk rather than an irritating neurosis, or worse, a symptom of a fundamentally broken worldview, as I'd always suspected.

Even on the day we brought Amanda home for the first time, when I managed to get us into a minor accident – just a slight fender bender in the hospital parking lot. Hardly anything. But in the moment, I'd completely panicked. _Me_ , a parent? Knowing everything I knew about myself, about the way I was brought up, the kind of house I grew up in? Me, raising a child – I couldn't conceive of a more catastrophic idea.

Me, who could fuck up something as simple as driving my baby daughter home.

My hands were shaking, clutching the wheel, not daring to move, not even to wipe the thin trickle of tears running down my face, because I felt like something that could detonate at any moment.

But Alex...

Alex put his hands on mine with gentle calm, easing my fingers off the steering wheel. He put his arm around my shoulder, and drew me slowly to him, until I was in his arms, sobbing into his sweater vest as he stroked the back of my head.

“ _It's okay... it's all going to be okay...”_

“Sounds like a good story.” Amanda whispers, and my heart breaks a little because I know what she's thinking. That her father isn't here to tell the other half of it.

“It's my favourite story,” I quietly reply. “And I'll tell you the whole thing from beginning to end one day. For now though, what I will say is that I would be a very different person today if I hadn't met your father when I did. If I hadn't fallen in love with him. If he hadn't loved me back. If a thousand little accidents hadn't conspired to make our paths cross.”

I sigh, hoping she understands. “So I can make myself get out there. I can start seeing other people. But... your father was the _one_. He was my whole world. With anyone who comes after him... I can't help feeling like I'd always be comparing them. And that wouldn't be fair, on Robert or anyone else.”

We sit quietly for a while, before Amanda speaks again. “You know... this is just one girl's opinion, but... I don't really believe in _the_ one. I think, depending on where you are in life, maybe there's always _a_ one. I mean, you're not the same person as you were when you met dad, right? So maybe your one now is different from who he was then.”

I blink, unsure what I'm supposed to say to that.

She leans over and tweaks my nose, the way I used to do when she was little. “I just think dad would want you to be _happy_. That's all I'm saying. You would want the same for him if it were the other way around, right?”

“I would.”

She looks content, as though that settles the matter. “Do you think someone like Robert might make you happy?'

“I really don't know, Panda.”

“Don't you?” She smiles cryptically, thrusting her camera in my face. “Have a look at this, then decide.”

There, on the camera display, is the picture she'd taken of Robert and me. She'd caught Robert mid-laugh, and he looks painfully handsome, the corners of his eyes crinkling into laugh-lines, his teeth flashing in a broad, good-natured grin. Did I really make him laugh like that?

But the part that really surprises me... is me. I'm looking at him and smiling back in a way I didn't realise I was capable of anymore. In a way that if the photo had been of two strangers, I wouldn't have thought twice about Amanda's question.

“Your story's not over yet, dad,” Amanda slides off the couch and reclaiming her camera. She ruffles my hair and kisses my forehead. “Maybe something really good happens next.”

I think about the person next to Robert in the photo... he looked hopeful.

“Maybe it does,” I agree.

 *

I stand on the porch steps, knock three times on the door, and wait. I'm nervous, but it's the good kind of nervous. The kind of nervous that has to do with possibility. I wait, and wait...

Just as I'm about to give up and go home, he opens the door.

“Hey there.” He looks sweetly confused, blinking as though he's just woken up from a nap.

“Hey there,” I breathe. “Is it too soon to collect on that drink?”

Robert grins, and I can't stop my heart from doing a little loop-the-loop.

“It's never too early for a drink.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> If like, please comment/kudos.  
> It's the only thing that makes me feel alive.  
> Seriously though, I haven't written anything in yonks, so would really appreciate any feedback you guys have. ^^


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